As the Crow Dies Read online

  CHAPTER 5

  Aunt Mary Moses

  Segal parked in the Rankin Street deck and took the exit onto Walnut Street in downtown Asheville. His phone buzzed, which reminded him he had not returned the captain’s call. It was dispatch. This one he took.

  “We put out the BOLO alert on your guy, Francis Elah, like Dinah asked,” said a no-nonsense woman on the other end. “We didn’t have any case paperwork on this, so Dinah said I should go ahead and open a file, which I did.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Segal said. He wondered why the dispatcher was getting into so much detail about paperwork.

  “I got to put a name in for primary investigator,” the dispatcher said. “I assumed that would be you, but Dinah said ask you first.”

  Segal stopped walking and thought for a moment. “Yeah, hold up on that till I have a chance to talk to the captain.”

  “You gonna be in pretty soon?” the dispatcher asked. There were certain positions in the police force where details of protocol were strictly observed, dispatch being one of them.

  “Later this afternoon,” Segal said. “I have an interview and then an appointment.”

  “I’ll tell the captain to expect you,” the dispatcher said.

  Segal winced at the mention of his boss. He did not look forward to that conversation.

  He continued his steep climb up the hill that led from the parking garage to Haywood Street. He had not taken ten steps before he heard a plaintive chord from a squeezebox and a unique voice carrying a melody above it. It registered as Old English, and he knew perfectly well who he would see when he reached the top of his climb. It was Mattie, sitting on an instrument case with her long legs stretched out in front—long legs with at least three layers of stockings torn in different places, long legs coming out of cut-off jeans and ending in knee socks bearing bright horizontal stripes and disappearing into combat boots. She gave him an abundant smile as soon as he rounded the corner. He already had a matching smile on his face.

  She launched into the next verse of a song heard rarely, if ever, outside the south of England, at least not in this century, Segal thought.

  God bless Aunt Mary Moses

  And all her power and might, oh.

  And send us peace to England

  Send peace by night and day, oh.

  He was even with her now and beamed as she sang the chorus:

  Hal and Tow

  Jolly rum below

  We were up

  Well before the day, oh.

  To welcome in the summer

  To welcome in the May, oh.

  For summer is a-coming in

  And winter’s gone away, oh.

  He let the last chord from the squeezebox trail off before he stepped in and gave her a hug. It had been a while since he’d seen her. Street singers were good people for detectives to know, but for Segal, Mattie was special. He had helped her out in the past, and she had not forgotten. She stood, rising well above his own height as they pulled back to get a good look at one another, as old friends do. She slipped the book out of his coat pocket with a flourish and looked at the cover.

  “Ah, Elmore Leonard, the Great One,” she said.

  Segal nodded and grinned.

  “The thing I like about Elmore Leonard novels is that, in the end, everybody gets exactly what they deserve,” Mattie said. “I mean, exactly.”

  “That’s right,” Segal said. He had not thought of it like that, but it probably was one of the things that drew him to those books.

  “Where’s that sexy partner of yours?” she asked.

  “Dinah’s around. We’re working on something right now,” he said. It made him think of the reason he was there.

  Two girls came up, walking side by side. They passed, but before they turned into Malaprop’s Bookstore, past the big plate-glass window with posters announcing authors who would be visiting, one said to the other, “Check that out.” She was staring across the street.

  A man walked slowly up the sidewalk, a priest in a black suit and black hat. His hands were clasped behind him and he bent forward, apparently deep in thought and looking not to the right or the left. Following him at intervals of about two feet were eight pigeons walking in a line.

  Segal watched with Mattie and the two girls, amazed and amused, as the man walked on up the block toward the Basilica of St. Lawrence. When he got to the intersection, he proceeded into the crosswalk without any apparent hesitation or any sign of checking to see if the light was in his favor—which, it so happened, it was. All the while, the pigeons followed right behind. It reminded Segal of a black and gray version of a mother duck and her ducklings. When the man got to the front door of the basilica, the pigeons scattered as he opened the door and entered, never checking behind, never acknowledging the birds in any way. The show was over.

  One of the girls said, “Was that some kind of miracle or something?”

  “No, those pigeons were trained,” the other girl said.

  “The priest trained them?” the first girl asked.

  “No, some guy who lives in the Grove Arcade did. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

  The girls pushed on into Malaprop’s.

  Segal shrugged his shoulders at Mattie, who shrugged and grinned in return.

  “Just part of the downtown morning show,” she said.

  Segal was still trying to wrap his mind around what he had seen.

  She grinned at him and said, “This is Asheville, Segal.”

  Yes, this is Asheville. He was thinking of the whole case, more than the little two-species parade he had just seen. He promised to buy Mattie a coffee next time he saw her. He was heading for the Grove Arcade to interview Emily Elah, Francis’s wife.

  Maybe she will know where the mystery man is.

  He walked around the bend in Page Avenue, which took him by the old Battery Park Hotel building and to the north entrance of the Grove Arcade. He looked at the two stone statues of winged lions guarding the door. Mattie’s words came back to him: This is Asheville. Those lions were about as Asheville as Asheville could be.

  The Grove Arcade took up an entire city block and was a masterpiece of what Segal thought of as Art Deco/Egyptian Gothic architecture. The outside was ornate, clad with glazed tile and gargoyles, as well as the winged lions. The outside perimeter was filled with restaurants and shops, kicking into action for the day.

  Segal pushed through the glass doors between the sphinxes and stopped to take in the sights inside the vault of the arcade. It was bright and tall and full of the sounds of commerce. All along the ground floor of the inner arcade were shops of various sizes and types. A unique kind of ceramic tile that resembled carved stone covered the walls. Various fittings and trim pieces were made of well-aged bronze. Segal’s favorite features were the spiral stairways leading to the upper stories. They corkscrewed in and out of the side walls in a way Segal had never seen anywhere else. A handrail encircled the mezzanine, which hosted offices. An identical one ran around the third floor, which was where the apartments, including the one he was looking for, were situated. At the top of the structure was a ceiling formed by a bronze framework that held panes of glass, the source of the white light filling the vault of the arcade.

  The spiral stairways, whimsical and inviting as they were to spectators, were gated off and no longer in use, so he proceeded to the central structure, which housed the elevators. He found the elevators required a special code for operation. Nonresidents had to call one of the residents’ numbers, listed on a placard nearby. He found the number for the Elahs, keyed it in, and got no response. Pretty good shield from the outside world, Segal thought.

  He turned and saw a security guard making his rounds. He showed the guy his badge and told him he was looking for Mrs. Elah.

  The man held up a finger and moved to where he could look down the length of the central vault. He grinned. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “This time of day, she’s out with their little girl, Suzie, getting so
me sun by the window at the end of the hall.”

  Segal followed his gaze. He saw them there in front of a large half-circle arch of window, silhouetted against the northern light, a slim lady and a girl in a wheelchair. The girl held her head to one side, resting her cheek on her palm. On both sides were the silhouettes of palms and ferns of a small but lush indoor garden. The slim lady had a phone to her ear.

  A dark feeling invaded Segal’s core. For an instant, he relived the time that he had been in a wheelchair. It was not that long ago. And for a time, the doctors had told him he might be in it for good.

  “This way,” the security man said, and led him to the elevators. Segal entered, and the security man reached in far enough to key in the code.

  The elevator deposited him in a third-floor vestibule. To his left was a small common area with some rocking chairs and a couch and a coffee table with a collection of magazines and paperback books. It was like a shared living room. He imagined the residents getting together there for a glass of wine in the evening or perhaps sitting on the couch and reading, taking a break during the day. Now, the chairs and the couch were vacant.

  He swung right and went around the central column, spotting the mother and daughter at the end of the hall. From this perspective, the arched window was even more beautiful, suspended as it was between the arcade below and the skylight above. The sounds of the arcade drifted up, forming a tinkling and murmuring background music.

  Segal moved toward them along the wide carpet, the doors and windows of the apartments to his left, the bronze and steel railing to his right. He glanced down into the arcade, across to an identical walkway on the opposite side, and upward to the curved and riveted steel beams that supported the glass ceiling. It’s like living inside a work of art.

  He walked with the thick carpet silencing his step. The girl was turned sideways to him in her wheelchair. Her eyes were closed, and he noticed that she held the tip of a fern leaf in her left hand, rubbing it lightly between her fingertips. He thought she might be around eleven or twelve, but it was hard to judge. The woman had her back to him, looking out the window and talking in short bursts into the cell phone clamped to her ear. Segal slowed so as not to sneak up and startle them. He finally came to a stop about twenty feet away and waited.

  After a moment, the woman made an impatient turn, one hand on her hip and the other holding the phone to her ear. She nearly swiveled into a chair, saw Segal, and gave out a startled breath.

  In spite of his precautions, he’d rattled her.

  “I’ll have to call you later,” she said and hung up. “What part of the government are you from?” She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg, sticking out a hip. It stopped Segal in his tracks. Most people didn’t take him for a cop. He withdrew his badge and held it out to her. She was of medium height and had straight black hair. The bangs were trimmed razor-straight above her eyes in what Segal thought of as the Cleopatra look—a look he found exotic and intriguing.

  The girl opened her eyes but did not move her head or any other part of her body. She simply stared at him. The corner of her mouth turned up in a crooked grin.

  “My name is Ira Segal. I’m with the Asheville Police Department,” he said. “You, I presume, are Emily Elah.”

  She made no answer but shifted her weight again. It reminded Segal of a boxer circling in one direction, then shifting to another. He knew those moments could conceal surprises in and out of the ring.

  Finally, she said, “What are you after, Mr. Segal? I need to get my daughter to therapy soon.”

  It gave him a chance to acknowledge the girl, at least with a nod. The window behind her offered a view of the basilica. “Did you see the line of pigeons walking behind the man in black?” he asked in a friendly voice as he bent closer to her face with its crooked little smile and loose curls falling down on either side.

  With the same unreadable expression, the girl reached out and placed her palm on Segal’s cheek. She held it for a long moment until it seemed her appraisal was complete. Her smile widened a little.

  Segal barely breathed as she did this. For him, it was a remarkable exchange of feeling.

  “That was one of my husband’s little projects,” Mrs. Elah said, “done for Suzie’s amusement. She likes to come out here and watch them walk to church every morning.” She stopped and continued to glare at Segal, waiting for him, he supposed, to get to whatever had brought him up there.

  “Are you familiar with Charles Atley?” he asked.

  She frowned. “He works with my husband.”

  Segal saw no special reaction in her face or manner. He was close enough to smell her floral perfume when he leaned in. Speaking in a whisper, he said, “I’m afraid Mr. Atley was found dead this morning.”

  Mrs. Elah recoiled. “Dead? Are you sure? How?” She made no effort to lower her voice.

  Segal turned toward the little girl, who did not react or give any indication of being upset. “You knew Mr. Atley pretty well?” he asked.

  “Chickey? Yes, I knew him. He worked with my husband for a long time. Sure,” she said. “What about Francis? My husband? Have you heard anything from him?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Elah, that’s one of the questions I wanted to ask you. Whether you could help us get in touch with your husband, Francis.”

  She withdrew a step and narrowed her eyes. “So, you’re another person from the government looking for Francis.”

  Now it was Segal’s turn to step away. He pulled his badge out and showed it to her again. “Mrs. Elah, as I said, I am with the Asheville Police Department, which is, I suppose, part of the government, but I don’t know about anyone else looking for your husband. We did find the body of a man identified by his driver’s license as Charles Atley. His card took us to his company, Creatures 2.0, and from them we found out that your husband cannot be accounted for. You can understand why we need to speak with him. They claim they do not have a way to get in touch with him, and we were hoping that you do.”

  “They still say they know nothing about where he is?” she asked.

  Segal heard mostly suspicion there, but a little hope as well. “Can you tell me anything about the project that took him away?” he asked.

  “Oh, the Project,” she said, raising her hands. “The big, important Project.”

  He followed her gaze as she shook her head, down toward the arcade, where happy people came and went.

  She continued. “He said it was top secret. He was sworn to secrecy, and even if he wasn’t, I would not want to know where he was going or what he was doing, only that there was a lot of money involved, enough to help out with our daughter and the operations she needs. Then he packed up a few things and left with that crow of his, Richard.” She blew air into her dark bangs. “Said he would be out of contact for a while, but no matter what, we would be okay. We would be taken care of. How are those for words of encouragement? I remember Suzie wanted to watch out the window, to see him come out of the building onto the street like she always does. There were a couple of guys waiting for him with a car. Everything about it looked dangerous to me. It felt very bad to see him go, very wrong.”

  Segal inhaled and sized up Suzie in her wheelchair. It was hard to tell from her face how much of this she was picking up. But as soon as he turned away, he heard her say something. He swung around and she said it again. “Richard?” She was moving her head side to side and up and down as if expecting to see the bird.

  Her mother came to her. “No, honey, Richard is not here now. This gentleman and I were talking about him, but he’s not here.” She went behind the wheelchair and pushed it toward their apartment down the hall. “I’m sorry, Mr. Segal, I really do need to take her home. Too much light at one time can give her headaches.”

  As Mrs. Elah leaned into the chair and started walking, the little girl reached out for him. She wrapped her hand around two of his fingers, and willingly Segal followed. He was amazed at the intimacy of the little gesture, at
how good her hand felt there. He sensed it was a blessing of some kind, and he was filled with a rush of emotion, more emotion than he had allowed himself to feel in a long time. In that moment, he felt he would do anything for this little one.

  Emily sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t help you get in touch with Francis, and I’m very sorry to hear about Chickey. Do you have any idea yet what happened to him?”

  Suzie has apparently softened your mood as well, Segal thought. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s too early to know, but I will be in touch.”

  The little girl raised an arm when they got to the door of their apartment. To Segal, they all seemed identical, save for the numbers on the doors. He wondered if that was how she knew which one was her home, or if she was picking up on some other cue. He had no idea where she was on cognitive or reading skills.

  When Emily opened the door, Suzie continued to hold his hand.

  Emily stepped in, slid the girl’s hand off of his, and said, “We have to let the man go, honey. He has things to do.”

  It brought Segal out of the trance the little girl had put him under. He did have things to do, yet he felt compelled to offer them something. He said, “It seems she likes the bird. Would you like me to see if someone from the company could bring him over for a visit?”

  Mrs. Elah’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? Richard is with Francis.”

  Segal explained how he had seen Richard at Creatures 2.0, but she shook her head.

  “You must be mistaken, Mr. Segal. There’s no way Richard would leave Francis for very long. No way.”

  Segal said nothing, surprised at her certainty on this point.

  She turned to enter the apartment but then waited. “Will you let me know if you find out anything about Chickey or Francis?” The hard edge was gone now. He noticed the little girl was looking at him as well.

  He started to explain that he might or might not stay with the case. But instead, he nodded and said, “Sure.”

  CHAPTER 6